by AJ Wright
‘Is it?’
‘It might suggest something had just struck her, that she’d been thinking about it and the answer had just occurred to her.’
‘Answer? To what?’
‘To where she’d actually seen someone before. Perhaps it had been playing on her mind all morning. You know the sort of thing? I’m sure I know you from somewhere … But quite often, remembering takes time. Which means it could be any of the people she had met that day at the school.’
‘Such as Julia Reece?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘With her name changed.’
Edwin Gadsworth stood up. ‘Well then. What are we waiting here for?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You have important new information, Sergeant Brennan. All you have to do is act upon it. Just where is this George Street School to be found?’
The liquid tasted funny, not altogether unpleasant. He could detect treacle – his favourite when his mam spread it on a butty – and something spicy.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The bottle was thrust in front of him, but if he was supposed to read the label it was a hopeless gesture, even by the flickering light of the oil lamp.
‘Godfrey’s Cordial,’ came the answer.
‘What’s in it?’
‘All sorts to make you feel better.’
‘But I’m not badly.’
‘No. This keeps you from feeling badly.’
He took another swig from the bottle and wiped his lips. It wasn’t a bad taste at all. Not at all.
‘When can I leave? I don’t like it down ’ere. There’s all sorts. Rats an’ all.’
A pause, the oil lamp raised so that the flame was level with his eyes. They were red and tearful.
‘You been crying?’
‘’Course not.’
‘Good. You need to stay strong, Billy.’
‘But when can I leave?’
‘When the police stop looking for you. It was a bad thing you did, Billy. A bad thing.’
‘I know.’
Suddenly the lamp was removed, leaving him in the semi-darkness once more. He knew it wasn’t night-time yet, but as to the time of day …
‘Are you leavin’?’
‘I have to. You know that.’
‘Leave the lamp then.’
‘No. Oil lamps smell. You’d be found.’
He heard the door grate open. There was an inrush of stale cold air before it was closed once more, and the bolt slid back into place.
He hunched his knees together and felt his head begin to swim. He could still taste the cordial on his lips.
It took all of Brennan’s persuasive powers to keep the Gadsworths from storming down to George Street and demanding which one of them was Julia Reece.
‘For one thing, everything we’ve said is pure speculation. “Let’s wait” sounds like “Esthwaite” but it could equally be “Let’s wait” after all. My constable is very well acquainted with the effects of fainting spells. He assures me people say nonsense words all the time. And for another thing, even if your daughter saw Julia Reece, who’s to say she saw her in the school that morning? She could have passed her on the street, sat next to her on a tram, even been served breakfast by her that morning in a hotel. You see, we can’t jump to any conclusions.’
Gadsworth muttered something about police doing the job they’re paid for, but Brennan could see, as he escorted them from the station, that their ardour had cooled, at least for the time being.
‘Are you returning to Bolton?’ he asked on the steps of the station.
‘We’re staying at the Victoria Hotel,’ Gadsworth said. ‘Until we can make arrangements for Dorothea’s remains to be taken back to Bolton. This place has done enough damage.’
‘I see. Well if you can think of anything, however small, that you remember about Julia Reece and the events of so long ago …’
‘Rest assured, Sergeant,’ said Gadsworth sombrely. ‘Rest assured.’
He turned to re-enter the station when Mrs Gadsworth said, ‘My daughter’s life was changed for ever in Esthwaite Water, Sergeant Brennan. Seven-year-olds shouldn’t be seeing what she saw, should they?’
Gadsworth placed a firm hand on Brennan’s sleeve. He spoke in a low whisper. ‘This has grievously affected my wife’s health, Sergeant. I fear the worst. It would be of some comfort to know her daughter’s murderer faced eternal judgement before she does.’
Brennan watched them move slowly along King Street towards the Victoria Hotel beside Wallgate Station. Once he’d got back to his office, he was surprised to see the spectral figure of his chief constable occupying his chair.
‘From their mourning attire I’d say that was Miss Gadsworth’s parents?’
‘It was, sir.’
‘“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes”. Isn’t that so, Sergeant?’
Accustomed to the occasional reference to Scripture from Captain Bell, Brennan gave a melancholy sigh before giving him the gist of what he had been told by the Gadsworths.
‘The telegram would seem to support your theory that she did indeed recognise someone,’ the chief constable conceded.
‘Yes, sir. I need to find out which of them – if any – has a connection with the Lake District, Hawkshead in particular.’
‘A wise move,’ came the reply with a slow nod of the head. ‘By the way, I’ve read in the day’s orders that a child has gone missing.’
Brennan gave him a curious glance. He recalled the huge brute of a man the previous day – what had the desk sergeant said his name was? Tommy Kelly, that was it. He’d been yelling fit to burst about his missing son.
‘It may be something or it may be nothing, Sergeant, but this missing boy – William Kelly – attends George Street Elementary School.’
Brennan’s heart sank. Another coincidence?
‘According to Sergeant Prescott, sir, it isn’t the first time the boy has run away. I gather both the father and the mother are quite brutal towards him.’
‘Nevertheless, it might be something you could look into. I’m growing a little piqued at the mention of that place.’
‘Of course, sir. No stone unturned, eh?’
Once the chief constable had gone, he muttered a curse under his breath. Not aimed at his departing superior but at himself. He really must find time to read the order notices of the day.
Billy Kelly had fallen asleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. He dreamt of standing in a large wood, with huge, dark trees towering above him. There was a strong wind blowing, rustling the leaves and the branches which leant down after each powerful blast and whipped him on the cheek. He tried to run, but he could only move slowly, ever so slowly, his feet dragging on the ground and churning up deep ruts of mud and leaves in his wake. One tree suddenly sprang up in his path, as if it had grown at an incredible speed to catch him before he could find his way out of the black forest. Its branches grew wide apart as if offering a cold embrace.
Then he heard a sweet chirping, a high-pitched chatter that came from high above his head. He looked up, expecting at any moment to see a beautiful bird with blue and yellow feathers, but all he could make out at first was a thick branch stretching out to an impossible length.
Something scurried along the branch, stopped, leant over, then carried on. It wasn’t a bird, he could see that. It had four legs and seemed in its own busy world. Then he saw it – a squirrel, with a nut clutched in its paws. It glanced down at him, and he saw a glimmer of kindness in its eyes as it stretched out, offering the nut. Suddenly he was very hungry and he reached up. He was on the verge of grabbing the nut when all of a sudden the squirrel gave a deafening screech and launched itself from the branch, sinking its teeth into his fingers.
He woke up at that point, to find a rat biting his hand.
Brennan decided to continue with his original course of action and pay Reverend Pearl another visit. Of the three men who entered the staffroom when Dorothea Gadsworth fa
inted, the vicar was the only one she hadn’t already seen. Not incriminatory, of course, but it would be interesting now to ask him questions concerning his personal background.
He’d got the address of Tommy Kelly from Sergeant Prescott and would call there after he’d spoken with the vicar. He knew the uniformed constables would be keeping an eye out for the missing lad, and he hoped this really was a coincidence and that young William Kelly had simply run away.
When he knocked on the door of the vicarage, it was a middle-aged woman who answered.
‘Yes?’ she said, looking him up and down as if she were appraising his manner of dress. She was small, with sturdy arms and stocky build. The pinafore she was wearing, along with the duster in her hand, told him this was the housekeeper.
‘Reverend Pearl?’
‘Do I look like the vicar?’
‘Not a bit,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’ve no dog collar, for one thing.’
She paused for a moment as if considering some sharp retort, but instead she said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Detective Sergeant Brennan.’
‘Wait here,’ she said and closed the door.
From within, he could hear a muted conversation, then the door reopened and the housekeeper stepped aside. ‘You’re disturbing him, but he’s a saintly man. Come on in. Wipe your feet.’
As soon as he stepped inside, a tantalising aroma greeted him.
‘I’ll bet that’s a beef stew,’ he said to the woman as she closed the door. It never did any harm to get on a domestic’s good side.
‘Beef stew? With a chicken boiling away in the pot? Shin beef strained and chicken joints. That’s cock-a-leekie, that is. Beef stew my eye!’
With an air of hurt pride at his culinary blunder, she brushed past and led him down a small passage. She gave a small knock on the door.
‘Enter!’
Slowly she opened the door and said simply, ‘Your visitor,’ before ushering Brennan inside, closing the door behind her.
Reverend Charles Pearl was sitting behind a mahogany desk in what was presumably his study. He had a quill pen in his hand and had been in the process of writing with some vigour. He looked up and made an attempt at a smile.
‘Sergeant Brennan. Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you, Vicar,’ Brennan replied, remembering the protocol.
As he sat down, he noticed an array of books and religious tracts lining the shelving behind him, and along the walls more prints of wild and rugged scenes similar to the ones he’d seen in the living room. But taking prominence on the wall by the window was a sizeable print of an elegant woman standing with a sad expression on her face and her left hand resting on a spiked wheel.
‘I see you’ve been captivated by St Catharine,’ said the vicar.
Brennan nodded. ‘It was the wheel that gave it away,’ he replied.
‘Many people believe she died on that wheel. The Roman emperor’s punishment for rejecting his proposal of marriage. In fact, the wheel miraculously shattered and she was finally beheaded. A tale of true courage, Sergeant. Saintly courage.’
‘Quite so, Vicar.’
‘Well, what can I do for you? As you see, I’m knee-deep in sin.’
Brennan blinked.
‘My sermon,’ came the explanation. ‘There’s little point in demanding my parishioners redeem themselves from sin if I don’t tell them exactly what sinning is, how it corrodes the soul while cheering the flesh.’
‘Indeed, sir.’ As a child, he’d heard enough sermons like that at St Joseph’s to scar him – or scare him – for life. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, my visit is something of a quest.’
‘Oh?’
‘It appears that Miss Gadsworth may – and I emphasise the word may – have recognised someone she knew from the past and that may have prompted her fainting spell.’
‘And what has this to do with her taking her own life? Or are you now convinced she didn’t?’
‘I’m convinced she was murdered.’
The vicar’s eyes widened. ‘You have proof of that?’
‘We do indeed, sir. I can’t explain the circumstances, but it’s sufficient to say she was poisoned, and not by her own hand.’
‘I see.’
‘As I say, she may have recognised someone from the past.’
‘And how can I be of assistance?’
‘Well, this may sound a little presumptuous, but can you tell me something about your past?’
‘My past? I thought it was Miss Gadsworth’s past that was under consideration?’
‘It is. And I’m trying to find out exactly what occurred on Friday morning. She sent a telegram to her parents that suggested she’d seen someone from her past. Someone who was involved in a child’s death …’
Reverend Pearl carefully placed his pen in its stand. ‘I have never seen that girl before in my life. That should be enough.’
‘Just a few questions and I’ll be going, Vicar.’ Brennan reached into his side pocket and took out his notebook and pencil. ‘Now, as to some years ago, fifteen to be precise. The summer of 1879 …’
‘I was a mere youth.’
‘Where were you living back then?’
The vicar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I was twenty.’
Brennan gave him a patient smile. ‘Not really the answer to my question.’
‘Well I can assure you it wasn’t me the girl recognised. I have never set eyes on her before Friday.’
‘She would have been seven years old, Reverend Pearl.’
‘Well then.’
‘I’d still like to know where you were living at that time.’
The vicar shook his head resignedly. ‘If you must know I was living in Somerset. A far cry from Wigan, I can assure you.’ He gave a sacrificial smile then said, ‘And I am in the middle of a sermon. You will have other enquiries to make, I feel sure.’
Brennan, ignoring the hint, remained seated. ‘A little girl, Tilly Pollard, drowned fifteen years ago. It may be that Miss Gadsworth recognised someone involved in her death. This was in Hawkshead, by the way, in the Lake District.’
Reverend Pearl shook his head ‘A beautiful part of the country, I’ve been told. But I’ve never had the good fortune to visit.’
Brennan stood and thanked him for his time. The housekeeper escorted him out.
Outside, he stood on the street gazing at both the vicarage and the church, playing the conversation over in his head. After a few minutes’ reflection, he set off to catch a tram.
He’d be damned if he was going to walk all the way to Diggle Street. It was the other side of town.
The interior of Reverend Pearl’s living room and study and the kitchen at Diggle Street couldn’t have been more contrasting. Where the vicarage contained a whole plethora of landscape pictures showing nature at its wildest and most elemental, along with a host of religious volumes, the kitchen in which he sat facing Edith Kelly held not a single image nor a single book. Instead, the wall where the small range stood was smeared with dark soot stains from the tiny oven that formed part of the range. He saw the grey, cold ashes through an iron grill. In places the plasterwork on the walls had crumbled to expose bare brick underneath. A slopstone, badly chipped in places, held a number of unwashed plates, and behind the back door that led into a small yard a tin bath hung from a metal hook.
‘Got an eyeful?’ asked Edith Kelly, who had watched him survey her domain.
Brennan ignored the hostility in her voice. ‘You must be worried sick, Mrs Kelly.’
‘Never been gone this long. That’s why we reported it.’
‘And all the men have been told about him. Your husband gave our desk sergeant a good description of the lad. They’ll keep a sharp eye out.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ she snapped in a tone that implied the opposite.
‘William goes to George Street School?’
‘Aye. An’ it’s Billy. William’s the name he got give in church an’ we don’
t go so we don’t use it no more.’
‘Your husband told us he’d been in trouble at school?’
She folded her arms and snorted. ‘That swine of ’eadmaster walloped our Billy, all because he accidentally spat at someone. Then he gets another pastin’ when that snot-nosed frosty-faced bitch Ryan catches ’im swearin’. He can wallop our Billy all he likes on his backside, but wallopin’ ’is ’ands cost us money.’
‘How?’
‘Made ’em so sore the poor little sod couldn’t work. Does the odd bit up at the rolling mill. Helpin’ his dad. So I marched in an’ told that stuck-up bugger just what I thought of ’im. Told ’im the only teacher in that place worth owt at all is leavin’. So ’e calls your lot in an’ reports me.’
Brennan had seen the report, a visit from a constable with a warning for her to stay away from the school.
‘And you think the punishment might have made your Billy run away?’
‘Dunno. But ’e said summat daft to Len Parkinson’s lad Friday night.’
‘What was that?’
‘That daft lummox went round to find out what was what. They told ’im our Billy wouldn’t fight their Albert cos ’e’d done summat bad an’ didn’t want hangin’ for it. Like I said, it were daft. That tannin’ must’ve scrambled ’is brains. What goes on in that lad’s ’ead is a mystery.’
‘You said the only good teacher is leaving. Would that be Miss Rodley?’
‘Aye. Teaches our Billy readin’ an’ writin’. First of the buggers to get through to ’im an’ all. An’ now she’s taken up wi’ that vicar.’
He thanked her for her time and promised to keep her and her husband informed if anything turned up. As he walked off he tried to assimilate all that he had learnt in his meetings with the Gadsworths, the vicar and the formidable Mrs Kelly. There was a thread linking them, he was sure, but where that thread would lead was still a labyrinthine mystery.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were times, and this was most definitely one of them, when Emily Mason felt she would have been better off leaving school with the rest of them years ago and working in the cotton mill. Or even following those from her class who had taken on work in the colliery. It certainly wasn’t shameful, working as a pit brow lass: she’d seen them from her bedroom window in the early morning, as they woke her with the clack-clack of their clogs on the pavement below, their bright red scarves, wider than normal scarves to keep the coal dust out; their expansive shawls and their white skirts with blue stripes, some of them wearing men’s coats and even trousers!
